CHAPTER EIGHT
When Riley pushed open the door of the Atlanta Police Department headquarters, the lobby hummed with a familiar controlled chaos—uniformed officers escorting handcuffed suspects, civilians waiting with expressions ranging from boredom to barely contained panic, and the persistent ringing of phones that never seemed to be answered quickly enough.
“Agents,” Hayes called as he made his way toward them, weaving between a pair of patrol officers. “Glad you made it. Our guy’s all set up in the interrogation room.”
Riley nodded, falling into step beside him. “What’s Ewing’s approach so far?”
“Combative,” Hayes replied, leading them toward a security door. “Claims we’re harassing his client based on prejudicial assumptions and circumstantial evidence.”
“Marcus Ewing’s a one-man crusade against what he calls ‘prosecutorial overreach.’ Takes on cases pro bono when he believes the accused is being railroaded.”
“So he actually believes Hartley is innocent?” Riley asked.
Hayes shrugged. “Or he just wants to make sure we follow every procedural detail to the letter. Just so you know, he’s got a particular dislike for federal involvement in local cases.
Thinks it’s an overreach of power.” He offered a thin smile.
“So don’t take it personally when he tries to eviscerate you in there. ”
“Noted,” Riley replied.
Hayes pushed open the door to reveal a small viewing room with a large one-way mirror.
Through it, they could see Malcolm Hartley seated at a metal table, his shoulders hunched, hands clasped before him.
Beside him sat a man Riley immediately pegged as Marcus Ewing—silver-haired, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cops made in a month, his posture ramrod straight.
“Ready?” Hayes asked, his hand already on the door to the interrogation room.
Riley nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Ann Marie. The younger agent’s expression was focused, absorbing every detail of the scene.
Hayes led them into the standard issue interrogation room—beige walls, fluorescent lighting, a metal table bolted to the floor, and four uncomfortable chairs. A camera in the upper corner recorded everything, its small red light a constant reminder of accountability.
“Mr. Hartley, Mr. Ewing,” Hayes began, gesturing toward Riley and Ann Marie. “These are Special Agents Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
Ewing rose smoothly, extending his hand. “Marcus Ewing. A pleasure to meet you both, though I must question the necessity of federal involvement in what appears to be a local matter.” His voice carried the polished cadence of someone accustomed to courtroom oratory.
“The theatrical nature of Ms. Slate’s murder suggests a potential for escalation that warrants our involvement,” Riley replied, her tone professional as she shook his hand briefly.
“Theatrical? Interesting choice of words, Agent Paige. Almost as if you’ve already constructed a narrative around my client.”
“May we sit?” Ann Marie interjected, her voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the tension crackling between Riley and Ewing.
Without waiting for a response, she moved to the chair opposite Malcolm, settling into it with a grace that seemed at odds with the environment. Riley took the seat beside her, while Hayes positioned himself near the door, arms crossed.
“Mr. Hartley,” Riley began, “we’d like to ask you about—”
“Before my client answers any questions,” Ewing interrupted smoothly, “I’d like to establish some parameters.
First, Mr. Hartley has not been charged with any crime.
Second, the search of his office was conducted without a warrant.
And third, the only evidence you’ve presented thus far is a private collection of altered photographs that, while perhaps distasteful, do not constitute proof of criminal activity. ”
Riley maintained her composure. “Mr. Ewing, we’re simply trying to understand Mr. Hartley’s relationship with Veronica Slate.”
“My client had no relationship with Ms. Slate,” Ewing stated flatly. “He was employed as head of security at Magnolia Gateway Films, where she was an occasional visitor. That’s the extent of their connection.”
“Mr. Hartley,” Riley tried again, “could you explain the bulletin board in your office? The one with the defaced photographs of Veronica Slate?”
Ewing placed a hand on Malcolm’s forearm before he could respond. “My client is not obligated to explain his private artistic expressions. Unless you can demonstrate a direct connection between those photographs and Ms. Slate’s death, they remain irrelevant to your investigation.”
“Mr. Hartley,” Riley persisted, “you were absent from work after Ms. Slate’s murder. Can you explain why?”
“My client was distraught upon learning of the tragedy that occurred at his workplace,” Ewing answered smoothly. “He took a personal day to process the shock, as is his right under his employment contract.”
“And his attempt to flee when we approached him at the Silver Screen Café?”
“A misunderstanding,” Ewing replied without hesitation. “Mr. Hartley didn’t realize you were law enforcement. In today’s climate, many citizens are understandably cautious when approached by strangers.”
The pattern was clear—each question directed at Malcolm was intercepted and neutralized by Ewing.
Then Ann Marie shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. When she spoke, her voice held a gentle, almost conversational quality. “You know, Mr. Hartley,” she began, her blue eyes meeting his directly, “I grew up in a funeral home.”
The non sequitur caught everyone off guard. Malcolm blinked, his gaze finally lifting to meet hers. Even Ewing paused, momentarily thrown by the apparent change in direction.
“My father runs Esmer Funeral Home in Georgetown,” Ann Marie continued. “I spent my childhood around people experiencing the worst moments of their lives.”
Malcolm’s posture shifted subtly—a slight relaxation of his shoulders, a tilt of his head that suggested curiosity rather than defense.
“I look at you, Mr. Hartley,” Ann Marie said, her voice dropping slightly as if sharing a confidence, “and I see someone carrying a burden. Not guilt—not necessarily. But something heavy. Something old.”
Ewing stirred beside his client. “Agent Esmer, if you have a specific question—”
“It’s all right, Marcus,” Malcolm said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered. His voice was softer than Riley had expected, with the careful enunciation of someone accustomed to academic discussions. “I’d like to hear what Agent Esmer has to say.”
“The bulletin board in your office—it’s not recent work, is it? Those photos, the way they’re arranged, the precision of the cuts... that’s years of accumulated resentment. That’s not about her death. It’s about something she did to you.”
Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he chuckled—a dry, humorless sound. “Very perceptive, Agent Esmer. Yes, Veronica Slate and I have history. Not the kind you’re implying, but history nonetheless.”
“Malcolm,” Ewing cautioned, “you don’t need to—”
“I’d like to explain, Marcus,” Malcolm said firmly.
“I’m tired of being treated like a suspect.
” He turned back to Ann Marie. “I was a film historian before I became a security guard. Did my doctoral work on Hollywood during the McCarthy era, specialized in the impact of the House Un-American Activities Committee hearings on the film industry.”
Ann Marie nodded encouragingly. “That’s quite a leap—from academic to security chief.”
“Not by choice,” Malcolm replied, a flash of bitterness crossing his features. “Ten years ago, I was researching a book on Roberta Rimes. A comprehensive biography that would have included previously undisclosed information about her testimony in 1955 before HUAC.”
Riley’s interest was piqued. “What kind of information?”
Malcolm adjusted his glasses, a habitual gesture that seemed to help him organize his thoughts.
“Roberta Rimes cultivated an image as one of Hollywood’s golden girls—talented, beautiful, untouched by scandal.
But like many stars of that era, she had secrets.
During the McCarthy witch hunts, she was called to testify before HUAC. ”
“That wasn’t unusual for actors at that time,” Hayes interjected from his position by the door.
“No, it wasn’t,” Malcolm agreed. “But unlike the public hearings that ruined so many careers, Roberta’s was conducted behind closed doors. And for decades, the contents of that testimony remained classified. The very fact that she testified at all was never made public.”
“Until you discovered it,” Ann Marie prompted gently.
A spark of professional pride briefly illuminating Malcolm’s features.
“I found references to it in the personal papers of a HUAC committee member that had been donated to a university archive. Followed the thread, filed Freedom of Information Act requests, cross-referenced with other sources. It took years, but I eventually uncovered the truth.”
“Which was?” Riley asked.
“Roberta Rimes named names,” Malcolm said simply. “She testified against fellow actors, directors, writers—people she’d worked with, people who trusted her. She did it to save her own career.”
“And you wanted to include this in your biography,” Riley prompted.
“It was historically significant,” Malcolm insisted. “I approached Veronica about the biography, thinking she might appreciate an honest accounting of her mother’s life.”
“I’m guessing she didn’t,” Ann Marie said quietly.